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of the press are the better. The critics have said sands. What then? Stop the printing-press, or with all the force they could command, that such discriminate and discriminate, educate and eduplays have no excuse and no place on the stage. cate? Yet we venture that the proportion of good, The representative and the respectable members bad, and indifferent dramas played in the city of the dramatic profession, I believe, are of the month after month is, compared with the good, same opinion. As for the Boston Theatre, I can bad, and indifferent books and papers printed, as say that Mr. Tompkins would never even dream two to one in favor of the stage. of allowing his stage to serve for the production The morals of the stage have had their ups and of such a play as the press says . The Clemenceau downs, like the morals of everything else. When Case' is. The press and the Aldermen have they were at their worst in England, in the day seemingly joined in this matter to protect the when Wesley and William Law made the protest public; they have also protected the stage.” whose power we still feel, how much better than

All of which suggests a few thoughts concerning the theatre was Newcastle's politics? And in the present condition of the American stage, espec- those rotten days of decomposing Rome, which ially as regards public morality. It is a pleasure the opponents of the drama quote so much, how to see the present generation of our literary men much better than the actor was, the emperor or turning to the drama to the extent which we are now the priest? To-day, from a fairly large knowledge seeing; for a dramatic era in the history of any of actors, we must say that we deem them men and literature is almost always a vital and a hopeful era. women usually of great humaneness and of many But our authors do not need the stage as an in- virtues, a bad class to hit upon as representative citement to literary effort more than our people sinners, – as good a class as our .grocers, whose need it for their culture. It is hopeful to see the tea and sugar we do not stop buying when one of indiscriminate hostility to the stage which has so them turns out a scamp. We wish that Boston long pervaded great sections of our American soci- Aldermen would now turn their attention to the ety – good sections, religious sections — decaying. bookstalls. These need attention far more than It is hopeful to have such kindly words as have the stage to-day. We shall publish in the next numbeen spoken in late times by so many of our lead- ber of our MAGAZINE a much needed article upon ing religious teachers — Beecher, Swing, Phillips "Our Unclean Fiction,” showing how an insidi. Brooks. The bitterest opposition to the stage ous immorality is possessing much of our Ameriwhich we hear to-day is usually the most ignorant can fiction that still has welcome in what calls - often from men who never heard a dozen plays itself good society. Perhaps this evil can only of any sort, and those chosen as carelessly as one cure itself; but the evil of the journals of crime might seize a random lot of publications at the and filth, which flaunt in the windows of newsnews-stand, to determine whether the printing- stores in our every street, existing simply for the press be a blessing or a curse. Your hand would sake of pandering to what is lowest and most brudoubtless catch Howells's last book, of which per- tal among men, and constituting the most produchaps twenty thousand have been printed, and Mrs. tive school of crime in our midst, - this is an evil Southworth's last, - and we surely do not mean so gross, that it is amazing that a civilized society that Mrs. Southworth's books are bad books - should permit it for another hour. It should be which has three times as many readers; the New cured by the policeman, and at once; and the ENGLAND MAGAZINE, with its circulation of less Board of Aldermen that first moves in the matter, than a hundred thousand; some New York Weekly will have applause even warmer than that just won or Police Gazette, with their many hundred thou- from the theatrical managers of Boston.


THERE are laurels enough for the soldier,

For the hero, laurels and song;
Brave deeds on the field of battle

Are echoed in cheers from the throng,
Who have never a thought for the teamster,

The butt of an army's fun;
For who has kept count of the battles

His patience and labor have won?
Big, and brawny, and awkward,

Stupid, and rough, and profane, The army depends on his movements,

The soldier waits for his train. He is only support for the others,

A kind-hearted drudge at the best; Yet a hero, perhaps, 'neath his dulness,

If put to a soldierly test.

All the faithful are not with the fighters;

There are those who must toil and bear
The brunt of the army's burdens,

Yet none of the glory share.
But the battle were lost without them,

The soldier a hero in vain;
And muscle and brawn are needed,

As well as valor and brain.
Then a song for the faithful teamster,

And a place for his spirit among
The every-day, common-place workers,

Unnoticed, unlaurelled, unsung!
He is strength for the battle-leaders;

Unsupported, their triumph were shame;
And the hero were helpless without him,
Though no honor-list carries his name.

Jessie F. O'Donnell,

Though clouds of smoke the scene expunge,

We keep abreast, right well I mind it! At length her engine makes a plunge

And leaves my train a mile behind it. I can but think it is a type

Of my life struggle to be near her. What if the time should ne'er be ripe

And she be every moment dearer?
Yet still my soul this comfort hath;

That was its glory for a season, -
She touched my life, she crossed my path;
To think of me, she has some reason.

- Lucy C. Bull.

While sauntering on a summer's day
Near where my love had chanced to stray,

The little god espied her;
And quietly the roguish elf,
Stealing on tiptoe, placed himself,

All unobserved, beside her.
So fair a face, young Cupid thought,
By artist's skill had ne'er been wrought

On canvas or on stone;
And lest no other hand should serve
Such peerless beauty to preserve,

That task should be his own.
Then from his quiver forth he drew,
To match her cheek's imperial hue,

A full-blown damask rose;
And next, the whiteness of her brow,
In spotless purity to show,

A lily's leaf he chose.
To catch the color of her eyes,
And for all time immortalize,

A violet he took;
His paints prepared — but now perplexed,
He really knew not where he next

For canvas was to look.
Not long, howe'er, was he in doubt;
For soon the problem he worked out

When he had pondered on it;
The tricksy elf, with cunning art
For such sly thefts, purloined my heart,

And painted her upon it.
And so upon that summer's day,
It came about in just this way,

My own true love I won. When on my heart her face he drew, He painted better than he knew, Albeit 'twas half in fun.

- T. H. Farnham.

Our front room, it was furnished fair,

But closed to all the life of home;
A reservoir of mouldy air,

A corpseless catacomb.
A stern domestic quarantine

Scared childish footsteps from its door,
As if a powder magazine

Were kept beneath the floor. But when our folks had company,

The unused doors were opened wide,
And on the lavish luxury

We feasted open-eyed;
But we were strangers there, and hence

A nervous terror flushed each cheek;
Before the grand magnificence

We dared not move nor speak. And so we sat in vague alarms,

And sighed for some supporting pegs
For our unnecessary arms

And our superfluous legs.
We smiled our india-rubber smile,

A long, perfunctory, muscular grin,
Which advertised to all outside

How bad we felt within.
Our hearts were in the barn at play,

Or played at tag about the shed;
Our bodies, statuettes of clay,

Sat in the parlor — dead.
In moveless suffering we sat on

And wept for back-yard haunts to roam,
As, by the brooks of Babylon,

The Hebrews wept for home. In intellectual kitchens dole

Strong men their choicest life away,
And keep the front rooms of the soul

Unopened to the day.
They keep the pantry well-equipped,

The cellar they will never scant,
The parlor is a darkened crypt

Without an occupant.
Ilence blest is he who quits the quest

For wealth, or fame's receding goal,
And every day returns for rest

To the front room of the soul. Who lets the tempest rave and roll

Around him, in his glad release, Within the front room of the soul He tindeth perfect peace.

- S. W. Foss.

With just the glimmering of a hope,

In one dark corner of the station,
I tried to read, and not to mope, -

It was a dreary situation!
When suddenly I had the glimpse

That always keeps my heart from sinking, Tall feather, coat, and sunny crimps;

Yes, all of which I had been thinking! Oh, girlish figure clad in brown,

This, after all, is not denied me, That ere you leave the staid old town,

A little while you stand beside me! Oh, well-gloved hand, it is not given

To hold or furtively caress you. Words, too, must fail me, but -- thank Heaven!

I may at least blurt out, “God bless you."

Now one more moment of despair,

One glance at coat and crimps and feather, And into the soft April air

Her train and mine go out together.

A RIDE WITH WENDELL PHILLIPS. and determination, and not liking to undertake

the job without solid support, called on Colonel A DOZEN years ago, I was called on business to Sumner (afterwards a general in the war of the a town in western Maine. It was in the spring; Rebellion), who commanded the United States the roads were rough, and I had left the train forces in the territory, for troops to assist him in at the nearest railroad point, still fourteen miles making the arrest. Colonel Sumner furnished him from my destination. While I was pacing the a company of dragoons and, obedient soldier that platform with rueful thoughts on my ride by stage he was, accompanied them himself, though heartily over the muddy roads, a fine team, driven at a detesting the whole business. The marshal and lively pace, came up to the platform, and I recog- his party arrived at Brown's cabin a little past nized in the gentleman driving an old acquaint- noon, just as he was eating his lunch. Brown ance, who was a prominent citizen of the town to hearing the noise outside, came to the door and which I was bound. I informed him that I was on inquired their business. When it was made known, my way there. “ Well," said he, “I can get you he said, pointing to the marshal, “ That man will over there quicker than the stage can, and I can never arrest me!” Something further was said by give you good company.” He then told me he the arresting party, and Brown again said, “ That had come to the station for Mr. Phillips, who was man will never arrest me!” The whole party, of to deliver a lecture in the town that evening. The course, awaited the movements of the marshal, kind invitation to ride with them was gladly ac- who did not seem to be in haste to lay hands upon cepted, and in a few minutes the train bearing Mr. his man, though Brown stood before him in the Phillips arrived, and we started on what proved to çabin-door alone and, as far as could be seen, unbe one of the most enjoyable rides of my life. Our armed. Colonel Sumner suggested to the marshal road lay among the foothills of Mt. Washington, that he was there with his troops to assist him, if and there were many grand views given us of the he was unable to execute the warrant alone, but White Mountain range. Mr. Phillips was one of he must first make the attempt. At this, Brown the most delightful of talkers, and we were eager the third time said, “That man will never arrest listeners. As we journeyed on, we turned the me!” The marshal, after a further delay spent in base of a hill which opened up a view of a valley fumbling over his pockets, decided that he had before us, and a lonely farmhouse on the side of not brought the proper documents with him, gave a hill opposite arrested Mr. Phillips's attention. up the attempt, and the whole party rode away, Requesting our driver to halt, he gazed in silence leaving Brown "holding the fort.” Shortly after for a few moments at the solitary house on the hill. this event, this same marshal with a posse of the side. Then turning to us, he said, “ Gentlemen, slaveholding element, ambushed Brown and a few that house reminds me of John Brown's home of his followers, and in the rencontre that ensued among the Adirondacks, the place where they he was killed and his party put to flight. Mr. buried him." We resumed our journey, and he Phillips said that Colonel Sumner told him that gave us in his own unequalled manner story after never did he see such coolness and nerve as story of John Brown, and those times that tried Brown showed during the time of the attempted men's souls. One story among others, from the arrest, and that he did not wonder, under that graphic way in which it was told, made a lasting determined look fixed upon him, that the marimpression on my memory. According to Mr. shal felt that “discretion was the better part of Phillips, after Brown's arrival in Kansas to aid the valor.” free state men in their struggle for freedom, the As we arrived in front of our hotel, Mr. Phillips slaveholding element finding him a formidable said, “What, here so soon, gentlemen?” That opponent, and that he could neither be driven afternoon ride with that wonderful man, his geaway nor cowed by any effort of theirs, put a war- nial, sunny disposition, together with the graphic rant for his arrest in the hands of the United glimpses he gave us of those troublous times and States marshal of the district, a fierce fellow from famous men, I treasure as one of the rarest expeSouth Carolina. He, knowing Brown's courage riences of my life. – 7. 11. Barnes.

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